Disclaimer: The Husband is not the man I married. I make no effort to reconcile my writing with reality here. I need the freedom of fiction when writing about the Husband, because marriage is the hardest thing I do.
The Husband may say things that sound familiar to the man I married, he may look and act in similar ways at times, he may even provoke the same emotional response in me, but always remember that you cannot read this and know who he really is. If you read my journal you would have it even worse: in that writing the Husband’s so totally distorted by singular perspective and moment that he might be 300 different Husbands across those scribbled pages.
No, you cannot know the man I married the way I do, simply by reading this. You cannot taste the comfort in the cup of Earl Grey he invariably offers each morning and afternoon, sweetened with honey and softened with milk. You cannot see how he savors his daughter’s hug, or listens amazed to the ideas in his son’s prattle. You cannot watch him build a toybox or change a lightbulb or install a door, and glory in a primal sense of safety at his confidence and skill. You cannot hear the watery clink of dishes done and the mild roar of coffee ground as he prepares our home for a peaceful morning. You cannot feel the warmth and breadth of his hand on my skin. You cannot run your finger in the groove of his dimple. You cannot know the courage of his confusion, the wisdom of his choices, his willingness to ask, always ask, how could it be better?
You cannot know this man. Don’t even try. He’s my husband.